“Because I am still a virgin. And I firmly intend to lose said virginity by next spring,” the forensic mage declared with brazen confidence devoid of any modesty.
The entire table froze and stared at her with expressions ranging from shock to delight to downright horror.
Ginny overlooked the way Rufus was opening and closing his mouth like a stunned carp and addressed the forensic mage with a blissful smile.
“Is there a particular reason you are so intent on achieving said goal, Miss Shaw?”
“Call me Lyra, please,” Shaw said briskly. “And yes, there is. I hear it hones the mind. You know,”—her voice dropped to a shrewd hiss—“sex. Why, look at his Grace.” She indicated Evander. “He’s as sharp as a button.”
A snort left Viggo.
Evander glowered at the Brute.
“I didn’t say a word,” Viggo protested, struggling to contain his laughter.
“You just said five,” Evander ground out.
“Do you have a target in mind, Lyra?” Ginny asked blithely.
“Don’t encourage her,” Rufus groaned, finally finding his voice.
Shaw ignored the inspector. “I do indeed, Lady Hartley.”
“Ginny, please.”
Shaw acknowledged this with a sharp bob of her head before directing a sheepish glance at Viggo and Solomon. “It is a particularly magnificent man belonging toNightshade. I refer of course to Mr. Callaghan.”
Ginny’s elbow almost slipped off the table.
Viggo’s fork clattered onto his plate, his amusement fading fast. “What?!”
“Oh God,” Solomon mumbled. “Not Finn.”
Rufus had gone pale.
“Does she mean the redhead with the cocky grin?” Fairbridge asked Evander quietly, having evidently given up on reading his paper.
“She does,” Evander said dully.
Ginny recovered her composure, though her expression remained a little stilted.
“Are you certain you wish him to be the object of your affections?” she asked Shaw hesitantly.
Shaw blinked. “Who said anything about affection? He looks like he’d be particularly good at ridding a girl of her virginity.” She nodded sagely. “I did my research, you know. He apparently makes his women positively scream with pleasure when he rogers them with his big co?—”
Ginny hastily covered Shaw’s mouth with her hand while Evander and every other man around the table except Fairbridge tried to sink into the floor.
“Now would be a good time to depart for the Institute,” Ginny said in an overbright voice.
“What a great idea,” Evander muttered darkly.
Twenty minutes later found them at the Paris Institute for the Arcane in the 6th arrondissement. Unlike the London Royal Institute, which sprawled across multiple buildings, the Paris establishment occupied a grand mansion with a classical façade adorned with stone carvings of mythological creatures andalchemical symbols. The place held an air of intimate elegance—more exclusive salon than academic fortress.
They were greeted by a neatly put-together secretary in the marble-floored entrance hall. He checked their credentials before politely indicating the interior of the building.
“Comte Beaulieu awaits you in the library.”
Evander recognised several faces from his studies as they were guided through corridors lined with portraits of France’s most distinguished mages—Flamel, Nostradamus, even the controversial Abbé de Villars who’d claimed to commune with elemental spirits.
